The Click of the Light & the Start of the Dream
by Mindy35
Summary: Follows the events of "For Lovers Only". Yves and Sofia return to their former lives but can't forget each other or their short-lived affair.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Click of the Light & the Start of the Dream

Author: mindy35

Rating: T, sexual situations.

Pairing(s): Yves/Sofia, Yves/Other, Sofia/Other

Summary: Follows the events of "For Lovers Only". Yves and Sofia return to their former lives but can't forget each other or their short-lived affair.

Disclaimer: Characters are the property of Mark and Michael Polish. Lyrics for Jackson Browne's "Sky Blue and Black" and Jason Mraz's "Beautiful Mess" are the property of their owners and publishers and are used without permission. As is the poem by Rumi. Title is borrowed from Arcade Fire's "No Cars Go". No money made. And no infringement intended on any, only deep admiration. Admiration due also to the genuinely beautiful Stana Katic.

A/N: I know I'm late to this party but FLO was released in Australia only recently. This story is the result of my need to process all the *feelings* arising from repeated viewings of this bittersweet film. While I love and admire the movie intensely, there are also some ideas of sacrifice and personal choice that I don't agree with. While it makes for a deeply affective movie ending, it also leaves the heart wanting more from these characters. I've included many (but not all) of my thoughts and feelings regarding FLO in here and as such, this is a very special story for me. I'd love to hear people's responses. Also, I'm not on Twitter or tumblr so feel free to rec this (if so inclined) to people or communities that might be interested. I'd love for this story to reach those who love this film.

PART ONE – THE DARK

"_You're the color of the sky  
Reflected in each store-front window pane,  
You're the whispering and the sighing  
Of my tires in the rain,  
You're the hidden cost and the thing that's lost  
In everything I do.  
Yeah, and I'll never stop looking for you  
In the sunlight and the shadows  
And the faces on the avenue.  
That's the way love is…"  
_

i.

She'll think about him when washing the dishes.

Not because washing the dishes is something they did together during their runaway week in France. But because it's exactly the kind of everyday, domestic activity they missed out on doing together. And because of the conversation they had on the Riviera seashore. He told her about his marriage, about the wife waiting at home who was so similar to him. Neither of them liked to wash the dishes. Sofia had never minded it. She'd promised to wash his dishes. In some potential future they barely dared imagine being a real possibility.

Now, when she looks at David's dishes, she can't help thinking in a stealthy internal whisper…._Yves' dishes would not look like that. _Her husband likes to slather everything in ketchup so his plates are left with dark red streaks that spill over the edges. He likes to leave coffee mugs around the house for her to discover days later. They always develop a bronze crust because he shakes the milk before slopping it in in copious amounts. And there are always undissolved sugar crystals at the bottom of the cup.

Yves has his coffee black. And unsweetened.

And Sofia likes to think that he wouldn't leave his cups all over the house for her to find. She likes to think of him delivering his empty cup into the hot, sudsy water himself. She thinks of him coming up behind her as she stands at the sink, his warmth and smell overtaking her senses. His chest would press against her back. His hands will cup her hips as he presses a kiss to the side of her neck. Sometimes the fantasy will feel so real that she will lose herself in it entirely. Her hands will droop, motionless in the cooling water, her head tipped to one side and eyes closed in make believe bliss.

That's when David will stomp in in his work boots and ask her something idiotic. Or he'll poke her ribs with one finger and laugh, call her a daydreamer. Sofia will say nothing. She will just resume her task, bowing her head like she's in church as she scrubs each item clean. Washing up will become a ritual for her. Occasionally she'll wonder whether she is seeking to scrub herself clean, whether she is attempting to rid her hands of their sins as Lady Macbeth did. But it's not absolution she seeks. It's not a cleansing of her soul she craves. It's just him. Just Yves.

Standing at the sink, washing the dishes will become her favorite time of day. She will start saving it for when her husband is out of the house. She will look forward to that quiet time. Because it's the only time she allows herself to think about Yves without recrimination. Without including in her thoughts all the pain and blame she owns, without reminding herself of all the reasons they chose to walk away from their passion for one another. She will become absurdly possessive of the task. She will not let David do it. She does not even want him to stand at the sink. She will coax him, hoax him, even physically push him away from it if necessary. Just so she can have ten minutes alone with Yves in that dreamlike future they'd sacrificed to reality.

Each day, as she watches the water drain from the sink, Sofia feels the distance between them extending. She mourns the increasing chasm between the mundane present and their euphoric, too brief spell in France. Each day, as she watches the water drain away, she'll feel the decision they made solidifying. It becomes more irrevocable while she only becomes more uncertain that what they did was the right thing, the best thing. Each day, as the water drains away, Sofia will promise not to think of him for the rest of the day. Each day, she'll promise some uncaring universal force that she won't think of him the next.

But each day, she fails. She breaks her promise.

Sofia thinks of Yves. While washing the dishes. While searching the supermarket. While sorting the mail and feeding the cat. She'll think of him on waking. She'll think of him as she falls asleep. Alone, she'll think of him. Lost in crowds, she'll think of him. Driving in her car, she'll think of him. On rainy nights, she'll think of him. On sunny days, she'll think of him. Every interview she conducts finds a way to remind her of him. Every magazine she reads lacks his name in the credits. And every word she writes cannot help but resonate with her longing for him and only him.

Whatever promises she made with her lips, whatever promises she continues to make in her mind, her heart remains inconsolable. Her heart remains his. Missing in action, it will follow wherever he may wander.

_TBC..._


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Click of the Light & the Start of the Dream

Author: mindy35

Rating: T, sexual situations...later.

Pairing(s): Yves/Sofia, Yves/Other, Sofia/Other

Summary: Follows the events of "For Lovers Only". Yves and Sofia return to their former lives but can't forget each other or their short-lived affair.

Disclaimer: Please see first chapter.

ii.

He'll think of her in the supermarket.

He often did. Before. Before Paris. Before France. Before his destruction period. Which wreaked havoc on everything that ever mattered to him, everything he was even partly sure of. Afterwards – after admitting this secret to her as they lay in bed sharing the unfulfilment they'd held inside so long – he can't help but think of her. The hidden habit is not just part of him now. It's a part of them, a part of their story, their mutual loss. It's the only way he can conceive of to be close to her though Yves knows this is not something he should seek.

Nevertheless, he'll think of her. He'll think of what she's buying, eating, perusing. He will examine shopfronts, deciding whether they are the sorts of places Sofia would enter. He'll find himself wandering aimlessly up and down supermarket aisles. He'll stop to sniff shampoos or moisturizers, looking for smells he remembers clinging to her body. He'll take photos of the stacked shelves, of the depressing, worn linoleum, of an empty space he can imagine her standing as she decides which organic yogurt to buy. He will start buying dark chocolate. He's never liked it before. But he'll sample every brand he can find, gauging how good they are by how much they taste like her mouth on the night they snuck into the hotel kitchen and ate scraps by candlelight.

Yves will stop doing this when he realizes that his memory of her taste is growing fainter, that each bite of chocolate is confusing his recollection of her night-time mouth. And every recollection he has of her is precious, enshrined in the most private corner of his mind. Not to be disturbed or altered or contaminated in any way. Never to be matched either. He knows that. Each memory of her must be preserved at all costs. Because if marred, if shattered, his recollections of Sofia can never be replicated or replaced.

After his chocolate period, Yves stops eating altogether. He runs on strong, dark coffee and nothing else. He starts coming home with bags of groceries, random things he thinks Sofia might buy. At first, Clare laughs at his choices. Then she frowns at them. Eventually, she questions them. Especially since he never eats any of the food or glances at the products again. At some point, his wife will stop calling his phone during the day and asking him to bring home bread or milk or dishwashing liquid. He never remembers what she wanted anyway.

His New York agents are equally confused by his sudden obsession with supermarkets. Some of his more avant-garde friends kindly seek something existential in his endless supply of supermarket snaps. They suggest that he finally move out of fashion photography and try exploring his more artistic sensibilities. Clare agrees with them. She always has. She always detested his more commercial work. A friend of hers, another painter, offers to organize a show for him at a small but respected gallery. His own friends urge him to at least submit some of his supermarket pictures to the various art shows that fill out New York's constant calendar of events.

The only thought that makes Yves consider this is the unvoiced one that, if he did, somehow his photographs might reach Sofia. She might read a review, catch an image in the arts section of a newspaper. Some part of his life might graze some part of hers. The eyes he knows so well may see a thing that he created. Or that his grief created. Only she would understand the meaning behind his supermarket photos. Only she would see what was missing from them.

Yves refuses.

He can't hope for that, not for even the most minimal contact. Apart from which, he'd feel like a fraud. Putting forward black and white depictions of empty aisles and sterile shelves as real art when he knows what they really are. His own soul's desperate hankering after a ghost. A compulsion he can neither fulfill nor forget. He's unsure whether the photos he's taking are helping him move on, helping him process his loss. Or whether taking them is keeping him stuck where he is, looking for hope where there isn't any. Probably the latter.

So he stops. He stops visiting supermarkets. He stops taking his camera out with him. He stops shooting anything. Not walls, not sky, not a goddamn thing. He stops double-taking at tall women with long, chocolaty hair. He stops turning when he hears a laugh his heart prays for with every single pulse. He stops breathing in when he catches the scent of a familiar perfume. He stops hearing music, seeing the sun, noticing life.

Yves just…stops.

Everything.

_TBC…_


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Click of the Light & the Start of the Dream

Author: mindy35

Rating: this part, K.

Pairing(s): Yves/Sofia, Yves/Other, Sofia/Other

Summary: Follows the events of "For Lovers Only".

Please see first chapter for disclaimer etc.

iii.

David finished her study while she was away. It's the nicest thing he's ever done for her, the only thing he's given her that she cares about. It's attached to the house but isolated in a corner of it that he never ventures to. It has a door she can lock and windows that invite in plenty of sun. Sofia fills the space with a second-hand oriental rug and her father's heavy oak desk. All the books she's collected and all the notepads she's written in over the years finally have a home. David used to hate the piles by the bed, under the bed and the way her books would overflow from the hallway bookshelf.

In the past, she might've worried about him opening one of her notebooks and reading words she never intended for anyone but herself. Herself and Yves. She wrote to him, about him and all around him for years without ever realizing that was what she was doing. Sofia no longer worries about David discovering her poetic fumblings though. She no longer worries about him understanding the confession hidden in plain sight between haltingly scrawled lines. Because he doesn't know that woman. He has no interest in knowing that woman. The one who lives in those words, the one who lives in Yves' photographs. The woman who lived more during a week in France with her lover than she had in the entire time she'd known the man she was married to.

Unpacking boxes that have been in the attic for years, she finds photos she forgot she owned. Mementos from their younger love that she forced herself to disown but could never bring herself to discard. There are photos Yves took of her when they first knew each other, both professional and private ones. There's a snapshot of her wearing his mittens, hands pressed to her cheeks and snowflakes in her hair. Her younger self makes a fish-mouth at a younger Yves, behind the camera. The photo used to be his favorite. She still remembers every detail of the day he took it. As she remembers in minute, devastating detail the moment he told her he didn't want to hang onto it any longer. Mixed in are a few images he allowed her to take of him, generally when he was either too drunk or too sleepy to protest. They show his reluctant face before gaining the wrinkles round his eyes she recently fell in love with. There's one where his jaw is unshaven and his hair long and shaggy that makes her laugh aloud. There are a few of the two of them, taken with an outstretched arm, their faces pressed together or their lips to the other's cheek. And there are some random prints of his she liked purely for their artistry, their originality.

Sofia spends painstaking hours finding the perfect frame for her favorites and hanging them in perfect positions around the room. She doesn't display any with his face but she still feels surrounded by him. She could fill the room with images of Yves though and David wouldn't suspect anything. He simply accepts her artistic side now as something odd he'll never understand. And once the study is complete, he doesn't enter it again. It falls out of his awareness. As she does when she's locked in it. Which is exactly how she wants it. Because when she is in there, nestled deep in her chair, encircled by well-loved prints and books, Sofia is almost, _almost_ happy.

She starts spending more and more time in there. Despite his role in creating it, it becomes the only Davidless place in the house. Instead, Yves lives there. Her love for him, his for her, their past, their stolen future, it's all there. It's on the walls, in the pages. On days she is not out on assignment, she will go into her study and not emerge until nightfall, if then. Sometimes she will sleep on the tiny sofa in there, under a rug they bought whilst on a photo-shoot in Cairo. David doesn't complain. He often falls asleep splayed out on the couch, pants unbuttoned as some sports channel blares in the background. His oppositeness to Yves used to be a comfort to her. It was meant to not remind her. It never worked and doesn't now. Not with Yves so fresh in her memory. With him feeling so much more real to her than anything in her current life, the contrast seems more starkly cruel than ever.

On the hardest days, Sofia will read the letter he wrote to her. She keeps it in the top drawer of her desk in her study, pressed between the pages of a blank leather-bound notebook. It is her most prized possession. She knows the words off by heart. She doesn't need to read them. But she does. She saves them for when she needs them most, when she feels her weakest, her loneliest, her most confused. She hears his voice in her ear as her eyes trace the lines his hand charted. She feels his heart beat for her, somewhere out there. She feels his hands reach through the paper for her, claiming her, comforting her.

Afterwards, she will wipe away her tears. She will pick up the cork from the bottle of Cabernet they shared in Paris. She'll smell its fading bouquet before placing it back in the drawer. Then she will take out her phone, the phone she replaced as soon as she arrived home. She couldn't run the risk of misplacing it or accidentally deleting those three little words he left behind. It has only one use now. She'll listen to his voice tell her he loves her. Over and over. Until her heart swells too unbearably. Then she will lock the drawer with all three treasures safely stowed inside. She will place the key behind one of his prints. And try not to cry as she falls asleep on the sofa with the cat.

_TBC…_


	4. Chapter 4

Title: The Click of the Light & the Start of the Dream

Author: mindy35

Rating: T, sexual situations but this part K.

Pairing(s): Yves/Sofia, Yves/Other, Sofia/Other

Summary: Follows the events of "For Lovers Only".

Please see first chapter for disclaimer etc.

iv.

Clare gets him to eat again by having Lola bring him breakfast in bed. Her job is to make sure Daddy eats everything on his plate. It's a job she takes very seriously. Clare pulls this trick so many times that soon Yves is eating at least two decent meals a day like any normal person and not the zombie he is pretending not to be.

He feels better for it. His body feels more capable, his mind starts ticking over again. His heart…his heart is still back in Paris. Lying bloody and annihilated like a crushed pigeon nobody notices as they pass by. He ignores that part though. He eats. He watches his daughter's face light up as she stuffs toast in his mouth. He listens to her squeamish giggle as she runs her small fingertips over his morning stubble. She is so happy to have him home. She hates Paris, she tells him, the faraway place he disappears to so often. She does not know how often he is there, in mind, in spirit. Yves promises not to go back. For a little while at least.

Lola is eight. The same age he was when his father left his mother. He hates that he is giving his daughter that same experience. Over and over again. Six times every single year. But that's why he always comes back. He knows he can't promise Lola that he will never leave her mother. He can only promise that he will not leave and disappear forever as his dad did. He can promise to be the best father possible, whether he and Clare remain married or not, happy or not. He can promise to stay until Lola is old enough for him to explain himself to her, old enough to understand why he must go. He will not leave her with the giant question mark he always carried around.

He will wait until she is twelve.

Yves doesn't know why twelve is the magic number, why he has always thought that she will understand at twelve what she cannot at ten, at eight, at five, at four. It's simply the number he fixed upon years ago and hasn't been able to shake. He will do his utmost to make it. He owes her that much. He owes Clare that much. But if he is still thinking about Sofia, still aching for her then, still in love with her after all that time, he promises the soul he betrayed by leaving her that he will free himself to go find her. Their love has already survived eight years separation. There is no reason to believe it cannot survive another four.

Perhaps this is just a foolish dream though. One he shouldn't indulge if he wishes to maintain his life and sanity. Perhaps Sofia simply represents the light at the end of a very long, dark, lonely tunnel. A glorious mirage he will hallucinate over but never drink from in his lifetime. Still, even if that's so, it makes his unquenchable thirst bearable. Thinking of her as some distant dreamlike possibility gets him through the minutes, days, weeks, months that are so dull and bare without her.

Three months after returning, he cannot wait any longer. He feels like he is breaking a promise to himself, to his daughter. But he digs out the camera he took on his last Paris trip. He takes it into the studio and processes every last photo on it. He couldn't even think about looking at them when he returned. The pain was too fresh. As was the decision they made to separate. A decision he felt so sure of. A decision that collects more and more dusty doubt with every passing hour. Yves also knew that as soon as he looked at those photos, the last little scrap he had of her would be gone. Consumed. Irretrievable. In the past. So he waited. He waited until he was so thirsty for the sight of her that now the images act like some sort of blessed medicine to his ravaged system.

They make him smile. Something he hasn't done without a twinge of sadness since he left her. He drinks in her every expression, every curl of her hair, every flourish of her hand, every glimpse of her flesh, every flash of her smile. There are hundreds of them. Hundreds of photos tracking their progress along the French coast. There are a few of him that he skips over. He cannot look at them for the same reason he cannot look at his own face in the mirror. Mostly though, they're of her. Sofia. _Sofia, Sofia, Sofia._ Everywhere. Sofia dancing on windswept beaches. Sofia wrapped in white sheets. Sofia making faces at him. Sofia posing in an ancient alleyway like a Greek statue. Or Toulouse-Lautrec's _Chocolat_. Frame after frame is filled with her. Her beauty, her joy, her abandon. Her love for him. It's all there, all right there for him to see.

They're the best photos he's ever taken in his life.

He feels transported by them. To that most treasured of times. He feels the magic of photography like he hasn't in years. He feels grateful for it. Grateful that he can capture and save and hold onto this small portion of the woman he loves. His phone rings as he is absorbed in the reams of glossy prints. They fall from his fingers onto the mess of his desk. It's Clare. She wants to know when he will be home. Yves grunts non-committally. She reminds him to pick up his suit from the drycleaners for the wedding. He nods, unaware that she cannot see the gesture. _Marriage_, he is thinking, _why do people do it to themselves?_ Lola is crying in the background. So Clare hangs up before he voices this thought.

Yves sits at the desk with a sigh, resumes his perusal of the photos scattered across it. He spends so long with Sofia that he misses the drycleaners. He will have to wear an old suit. Lola is in bed, fast asleep by the time he gets home. Clare is in her upstairs studio, music humming lowly as she works on a new piece. He goes to the wardrobe in their room, takes down his luggage and retrieves a delicate package re-wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a thin ribbon. He looks at it, hesitates. Then he walks into his daughter's bedroom and lays a soft kiss on her forehead. He leaves the present on the end of Lola's bed for her to find in the morning.

Lola loves the dress Sofia bought. It's a bit big but she insists on wearing it anyway. When he tells her he brought it back for her all the way from France, Clare asks why he didn't give it to her sooner. Yves shrugs, tells her she wouldn't have had anywhere to wear it. Clare says nothing. She just goes into their bedroom to change. He can't take his eyes off Lola as she spins around the living room in the white dress. He can see Sofia in that dress. He can see her impeccable taste, her vibrant femininity, her silent sacrifice. The garment looks almost other-worldly. Like Sofia, it seems too exquisite for reality. It's certainly too exquisite for an informal garden wedding. He resists the urge to tell his daughter to be careful with the dress, not to rip it or get grass stains on it. Sofia wanted Lola to have it. It's hers. And Sofia was never one to worry about grass stains, even when wearing Haute Couture.

Yves told his friends that he couldn't do the photos for the wedding. He told them he was taking a break from the art form. They understood. Mostly because Clare had told them he was recovering from and/or on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Which is not entirely untrue. And as long as people leave him alone, he is content. As they are heading out the door though, Yves picks up a camera, slings it over his shoulder. After the ceremony, as the sun is setting, he watches Lola run around on the grass with the other kids. Wandering away from the small talk and finger food, Yves kneels in the russet tinged grass, lines up a shot and waits for the perfect moment to happen. He captures it as Lola is running away from him, down the green slope, arms out-stretched to balance her and hair leaping behind her.

Yves smiles and murmurs to the only person who understands, "I'm taking photos of beautiful girls again. Looks like you cured me…"

He takes aim and shoots another.

~x~

Sofia wakes with a start.

She must have fallen asleep on her desk. She thinks she dreamt of Yves because she wakes with the strongest sensation of him. His voice. Saying something. She's unsure what. Gently nudging the cat off her lap, she rises, closing the window before settling back in her chair. The air is cool now. The sun departed long ago from where she is. She feels haunted but not in a way she wishes to shake. Not if it's by him.

"Yves…" she whispers back across the ether.

It's been so long since she's said his name, tasted it on her tongue, heard the way her love fills out that simple syllable. She says it again. Calls it under her breath. But despite the fragmented promise in his letter, he isn't there to hold her. She looks down at the stanzas she was struggling with before falling into a dream. She slaps a hand over the inept lines, screws the paper up in her fist and flings it towards the others dotting the rug round the wastepaper basket.

There are no words.

_END of Part One. _


	5. Chapter 5

Title: The Click of the Light & the Start of the Dream

Author: mindy35

Rating: T, sexual situations. This is where the rating starts to kick in...

Pairing(s): Yves/Sofia, Yves/Other, Sofia/Other

Summary: Follows the events of "For Lovers Only".

Disclaimer: Characters are the property of Mark and Michael Polish. Please see the first chapter for the rest.

A/N: Thanks to those reading, really appreciate the comments :)

PART TWO – THE LIGHT

"_The minute I heard my first love story,_

_I started looking for you, not knowing_

_how blind that was._

_Lovers don't finally meet somewhere,_

_they're in each other all along."_

_(Rumi)_

v.

Sofia locks the door to her office and doesn't go in it for a week. Hiding from the world and dreaming about what could have been is not what she came back from Paris to do. She came back committed to giving the life she's got a real chance. David is the only husband she has. He's probably the only husband she'll ever have. Because if this marriage doesn't work, she won't marry again. Of that much she is certain. In order to give herself over to the life she chose though, she needs to put Yves and their tryst out of her mind. She needs to see it for what it was – an extraordinary, overpowering, once-in-a-lifetime experience, one that burned bright but had to die – and move on.

David doesn't notice the change in her at first. But when they find themselves climbing into the same bed on the same night at the same time for the first time in weeks, he looks at her like he hasn't seen her in months. Probably because he hasn't. She hasn't been there. She's been a walking, talking phantom. Not a real person. Certainly not a good wife. Now, she can feel him look right at her instead of right through her. She tries to breathe as his gaze meanders down her body, over her negligée. When he moves to touch her, her initial instinct is to resist, to turn away or push him away. The last person to touch her was Yves. And there's a huge part of her that doesn't want his touch, his mark, his claim on her erased. Especially by a man who's never known how to touch her. Another part of her knows that his touch is mere memory. As it knows that eventually his invisible mark will fade, though his claim will always remain, buried beneath her skin.

She resists the urge to reject David. Even though tears prick her eyes as his lips lower to her shoulder. She tries kissing him back, his chest, neck, arms. She feels nothing but she tries. She doesn't like how he smells, how big and hairy he is. She closes her eyes, attempting to block him out. Images of Yves immediately begin to swim before her eyes without being summoned. She knows she shouldn't allow him to infiltrate her head or intervene in their union. If she can just make it through this first time though. If the thought of him can just help her to do that. Then perhaps it will get progressively easier. Perhaps afterwards she will not loathe the man she is married to. Herself, probably. But David deserves better. He deserves a wife who loves him, who he can touch without her recoiling. Or at least, Sofia must have thought so, at some point in her life.

She lets him hitch up her negligée and stroke her thigh. The one bearing his name. She doesn't let him kiss her mouth. She can't give him that yet. And she can't help tensing when his hand brushes between her legs, over the crotch of her underwear. The part of her still stubbornly devoted to a man who is long gone is relieved that he doesn't touch her directly. It wants that privilege to remain Yves'. It wants that territory to belong to him for as long as possible. She hasn't even touched herself there, not since he did. But someone needs to break the spell he cast over her flesh. It ought to be her husband.

Her body sags in relief though when his hand moves away from her apex and up towards her breast. He bypasses her clitoris. He always has. Which is fine. Because right now, the sex she is having with her husband is not about pleasure or satisfaction or transcendence. It's not about rising to any of the peaks she reached in Yves' arms. It's about ruthlessly forcing herself into the present. It's about shattering the dreamworld she's been living in. Even if her utter lack of pleasure in the act ensures that the last orgasm she experiences will still be the final one Yves gave her.

The last time they were together was the most powerful physical experience of her life. They'd made it last as long as they could. They touched each other in every place possible. They made love in every way they knew how. They kissed with their eyes open, repeated their lover's name on sighs layered with longing and loss. And when they came, it was together. And everything was in that climax. All the pain. All the joy. All the pleasure. All the dread. All the devotion. All the grief. All the love. All the all of everything they meant to each other and were saying goodbye to. They held each other afterwards, nothing passing between them but breath as the clock ticked closer to the hour of their self-imposed disentanglement. Later, as the sun rose, as Yves slept, she refused to let her eyelids droop. Sleep was a need she could indulge at any time. Instead, Sofia watched him, drank him in, memorizing every detail of the man she wanted to grow old with but wouldn't.

Sofia stiffens suddenly. Her husband is kissing her neck, climbing on top of her. But her body goes rigid as her mind is gripped with one clear thought. She can't do this. She can't. Not this. Not with him. It's wrong. So very wrong. She pushes him away. Squirming out from under him, she flees to the bathroom, slams the door and palms the light-switch. She dry-retches over the toilet bowl, her face flushed and her eyes watering. Then, rising on shaky knees, she splashes water over her face and stares at her shell-shocked reflection. After a moment, her breathing begins to calm, she shoves the hair out of her eyes. And she feels a strange peace possess her.

It's the same peace she felt on that last day in Paris. She'd booked her flight, called home. On her way to the airport, she'd passed Yves' hotel and dropped in the white dress she'd bought his daughter, resisting the profound pull to see him one last time. That peace had stayed with her in the car and on the plane. But somewhere along the way, she lost it. And ever since, she's wondered whether it was an odd sort of detachment. Perhaps she'd simply cried and ached as long and as hard as humanly possible. All that remained was calmness, acceptance. Or, perhaps that feeling was mere afterglow. She'd experienced a love that few do. A love worthy of sacrificing her most cherished version of happiness. At the time, she'd been convinced of the rightness of her decision. At the time, her serenity seemed to stem not just from knowing where she was heading but from knowing exactly what she was leaving behind and why.

Walking away from what she had with Yves for the second time in her life was the hardest thing she'd ever had to do. Walking away from David could never be as hard. But it may be just as kind, just as necessary. It may be the best thing for both of them. She'd wanted to give him a chance. But the best chance she can give him is a second chance at a life with someone who actually wants him, likes him. She doesn't. She never did, never will. She only needed him, used him for her own purposes. She can accept that now. She can accept her own culpability in the failure they created. And in doing so, Sofia can accept what now needs to happen. Even if it means living with a ghost for the rest of her life.

David taps on the door a few times and huffs her name. She hears his annoyance as he asks if she's alright. She hears him snicker as he asks whether she's pregnant or just premenstrual.

Sofia laughs sadly into a towel. One of her most covert fantasies following Paris involved an accidental pregnancy. It might have explained that strange peace she'd felt after parting from Yves. Since her marriage, she'd been vigilant about taking her birth control pills. She never wanted any unwelcome surprises. But the love she and Yves made on that final night was so potent that she could almost believe it could overcome anything. Even basic biology. And she loved the idea of walking around with some part of him inside her. Of it growing into something with his eyes and his mouth and his gentle heart. She loved the idea of him being a part of her life always. She loved the idea of sharing their story with their child, telling him or her about their father and how very much she'd adored him.

It was a lovely fantasy. One she could endlessly expound. But in the end, it was just that. A fantasy. One of many. Stemming from a heartache she can no longer ignore. Sofia wipes her wet face. She opens the door and faces her husband. Time to get back to reality.

"I want a divorce," she tells him.

David nods, unsurprised. And leaves the room. A moment later, she hears the television turn on, a sports announcer's voice filtering through the grim silence.

The next day, Sofia packs three boxes from her study, one suitcase of clothes and moves out. The next month, after moving into her cramped new apartment, the first thing she does is put up a calendar. With black and white pictures of Paris. She circles a date in red marker.

Five months, three weeks and two days to go.

_TBC…_


	6. Chapter 6

Title: The Click of the Light & the Start of the Dream

Author: mindy35

Rating: this part K+.

Pairing(s): Yves/Sofia, Yves/Other, Sofia/Other

Summary: Yves and Sofia return to their former lives but can't forget each other or their short-lived affair.

Disclaimer: Characters are the property of Mark and Michael Polish. Please see first chapter for the rest.

vi.

He comes back from lunch to find Clare in his studio. She's looking at the masses of pictures of Sofia. She can't really miss them. Or the way he's photographed her. For someone who knows him as Clare does, that speaks as plainly as the words Sofia scrawled in the chilly French sand. Only her loveletter was washed away by seawater just minutes later. His are far more permanent, far more present.

When his wife asks who the woman in his photographs is, Yves doesn't lie. The name sticks in his throat. He hasn't spoken it in what seems like a lifetime. But Clare catches the strangled sound, he sees the flash of recognition cross her face. When they first met, he told her as little as possible about his former lover. But even that much must have given him away. She could tell their affair was big. Destructive. Defining. She'd lived in its shadow for their entire relationship. And Clare was a perceptive woman, she gleaned enough over the years to put the rest of the pieces together. So she knew that name. And all it meant to him.

She asks when the photos were taken. They both know it wasn't eight years ago but she is testing him, testing how far his honesty will stretch. Again, Yves doesn't lie. He tells the simple truth. Clare doesn't look surprised. She suspected something happened on that last Paris trip. She suspected there was a reason he hadn't been back. Now she knew what. And she knew why. Yves watches her digest this information, watches her glance again at the photos of Sofia. She surprises him by asking straight out if he's still in love with her.

Yves looks down, rubbing his forehead with two fingers. He has no intention of lying. "Incredibly," he answers softly. "Yes."

Clare studies him a moment then says she needs to pick up Lola. She fumbles with her keys, tells him they'll talk later. Yves nods, watching her leave. Later that night, after Lola is asleep, she tells him she will be the one to end their marriage. She will be the one to give in, give up, say what needs to be said. She knows he will never leave his daughter. She knows why he will never leave his daughter. But Lola needs a happy father, she tells him, not the pretense of a happy marriage. So she will release him. She will release herself from a situation that isn't benefiting any of them.

Yves doesn't fight her. He's too stunned. Too stunned to feel relief. Too stunned to feel anything. He thought Clare would hold on forever. He thought her grip on him would never fail. He isn't sure what to say. He insists that she keep the apartment. And she insists it be with Lola. They agree to shared custody. And he agrees to her citing infidelity when she files for divorce. It's all surprisingly calm and civilized. If he ever imagined this scene, he always pictured her throwing things at him, hurling accusations. He pictured her with red cheeks and flashing eyes and bunched fists. It's then that he realizes how much Clare has changed. She has grown into a completely different woman while he wasn't paying attention. Her fire has dulled, her outlook turned bitter. A lot of that is his fault.

Yves apologizes. For that and everything else. The two words are insufficient. He knows that. They are meant to cover a multitude of sins reaching right back to his decision to marry her, bed her, shake her hand and change her life for the worse. Clare surprises him again by apologizing back. Then they stand, staring at each other across the living room they will no longer share. Two strangers who have lived together but shared little of their true selves. There's nothing left to say. Then Yves remembers that this is the easy part. The hard part will come the next day.

He spends the night on the couch, sleepless. He tries to plan what he will say to Lola before changing her life forever. But he can only hear Sofia muse..._She's your heart, no?_ He wishes it were that simple. He wishes his little girl was enough. He doesn't know how to tell her she isn't. That his heart doesn't beat for her alone, that he needs more than her to be truly happy.

Morning comes too soon. He isn't prepared. But he never will be. They talk to Lola separately. First, Clare. Then it's his turn. Their daughter is teary and confused. All he can do is reassure her of his love until his voice breaks with it. He tells her he will see her often, be there always. He promises that they will see a movie that weekend. It seems so inadequate. Especially when he follows this promise by doing what he vowed never to. Yves picks up his bag, kisses her one last time and leaves.

~x~

He is used to living out of hotel rooms. It's not uncommon for him. In fact, it's comforting. He feels safe in their impermanence, their anonymity. He can't see himself investing in another place right away, not after leaving the only real home he's ever known as an adult. And he doesn't really know what to do now, what's meant to come next. This is a scenario he never planned for.

If he's truthful though – that is not entirely true. If it was, then he and Sofia would never have granted themselves an out. One chance, one recourse. One. They'd talked about it towards the end of their time together, only once and not in much detail. It was a hazy hypothetical, a tenuous proposal at best. They'd agreed. No phone numbers, no addresses. No contact._ But_—. If they couldn't do it. If they went their respective ways. If they tried – _really tried_ – and failed. Then after one year. They'd meet. In Paris. Same place, same day, same time. Then, they could re-evaluate.

Yves never thought it would happen. He never thought they would take that second chance. He thought they'd only posited such an arrangement to ease the pain of parting. He'd thought of it as a beautiful fantasy they could dream of in moments of regret. Nothing more. Nothing real. Nothing actually possible. Now, he wonders whether in even contemplating such a thing they set themselves up for failure. Perhaps knowing they could have a second chance ensured that they'd want it, they'd take it. It practically guaranteed the failure of their alternate lives. Not that he knows anything about the current state of Sofia's life and marriage.

He knows nothing about anything. He knows he's a wreck without her. Again. Or still. He knows she permeates his existence even in her absence. He knows that he doesn't want to be sixty and lying on an anonymous hotel bed running his fingertips over words she wrote when they still had a chance. Yves flips through the thick, well-loved pages, squinting in the dim light filtering in from the street. There are poems about him in the book she gave him. Poems about them, about love and rage and sex and regret. There are poems dedicated to her deceased father. But his personal favorite is a poem Sofia wrote to her twelve-year-old self. It is filled with her humor and her heart. He's read it many times in the months since he saw her last. But reading it again now seems to bring a sudden clarity to her words, to his thoughts. It makes Yves think of his father. It makes him think of his daughter.

He tries to imagine what it would have been like as a child to see his father happy. He can't. The image he has of him is so fixed in his mind. He can't fathom how it might have altered his life to have a father who was content, a father who was present. Neither of which he has been for Lola. For the first time in his life, Yves wonders whether his father was ever in love. Whether he ever found love, found happiness after leaving. He might have grown into a very different man if he'd had a father who knew how to love. How to show love, how to celebrate love, how to be brave in love. No one ever taught Yves how to do that. Or how a man in love acted.

It's something he wants for Lola. He wants her to witness that, learn it so she can recognize it later. He wants her to see the joyous side of love, of life. He wants her to see that side of him. He wants her to see him happy and never wants her to think it's her fault if he's not. He wants his daughter growing up believing that real love exists. Extraordinary love. Love that gives. Love that wants and reaches and dares. Love that needs and knows. Love that's free. He wants her to know that when a man loves a woman there are no limits to what he will do for her. Because he prays that when she is older, someone will love her that way. With all their being, with every breath their soul owns. He prays she'll know what it's like to be loved that much. Without limit and without fear. He wants her to believe that she – that love – is worth risking everything for.

He's sure it's a sentiment Sofia's father would have understood. Yves only met him once. His handshake had been warm, firm. And his love for his youngest daughter fierce. Yves hadn't known how to act. He had little experience with fathers. But he wouldn't have wanted to tell the old man that his daughter wasn't worth risking everything for. When she undoubtedly was. And still is. He's never met a woman more worthy than Sofia. And she ought to be worth the risk. Any risk. Repeated risk. Because she's the love of his life. If he was too young and dumb to know it then, at least he knows it now.

Yves rises from the bed, downs the rest of his drink. He lays Sofia's journal on the nightstand and goes to the desk. Clicking on the light, he settles in front of the hotel stationery then picks up the monogrammed pen. He is not a writer. He possesses neither her gift nor her affinity with words. But he begins writing a letter to his daughter. A letter about love. A letter about choice. A letter to her twelve-year-old self. By the time he is done, he is certain. He will keep that appointment in Paris. However tenuous it might have been. He will be there. Same place. Same day. Same time.

He will be waiting for his beloved to come claim him.

_TBC…_


	7. Chapter 7

Title: The Click of the Light & the Start of the Dream

Author: mindy35

Rating: T, sexual situations. This part K+.

Pairing(s): Yves/Sofia, Yves/Other, Sofia/Other

Summary: Follows the events of "For Lovers Only". Please see first part for the rest.

vii.

Two hours into her flight, her nails are destroyed.

Yves would tell her to quit biting them. As he always did when she got nervous before a major photo-shoot. At times, she was as reluctant a fashion model as he was a fashion photographer. But he would promise her anything – food, wine, lowbrow entertainment, mind-blowing sex – to get them through an experience both of them occasionally abhorred. He would tickle her feet until she cried, ruining her makeup. Or he'd tease her until she laughed, releasing her built-up tension. But he is not with her now. Not there to make her laugh or quell her concern or murmur_ "quit…quit…" _in her ear until she ceases her nervy nail-nibbling. So Sofia continues gnawing at her fingertips. It's the one thing holding her together.

She's had three seven-and-sevens. She's tried to distract herself by looking out the window, watching the clouds drift on by below. She's tried to feel the distance between them diminishing with every minute the plane is airborne. But after her flight was cancelled, re-shuffled and delayed again due to congestion or bad weather or who knew what else, she's a nervous wreck. Months of waiting and vacillating and hoping and hesitating. Months to decide and prepare and she is going to miss her last big chance. All because of bad timing. She asks herself for the millionth time why she didn't book an earlier flight but she knows the answer. She didn't want to experience Paris without Yves. She's experienced enough life without him. She wanted to experience Paris with Yves, in his company and in his arms. Not once did it occur to her, as she counted down the days, hours, minutes, that the Universe would conspire against them so cruelly.

Performing the calculations in her head, she hopes against hope that her estimate was incorrect the first dozen or so times. She hopes that a blessed loophole in time will somehow allow her to reach that flight of stairs at the exact same moment he does. Assuming Yves will be there, assuming he has come to the same conclusion she has. Which is not a given. Not at all. She isn't sure he even remembers that most tentative of all the tentative conversations they had as they chased the French coastline. She isn't sure he recalled the one little loophole they'd left for themselves, only to be used if everything else failed. And everything in her life had. Her marriage had failed. Her heart had failed. And she had failed to forget him and move on. But she has no clue whether her lover's fate has been the same.

She only knows she has to make that meeting. Even if he doesn't show. Even if she ends up alone in Paris, the city for lovers. Even if all she gets from her trip is the knowledge that at least she tried. She took her last wild shot at happiness. Maybe then, she can move on, knowing that he has. Knowing that Yves is happy, somewhere out there. She doubts she'll ever entirely forget him or live a fulfilled life without him. But a girl can live in hope.

Sofia calls to a flight attendant as he stalks past. When he turns to her, a faux smile on his foundation-laden face, she stops biting her nails long enough to ask their ETA. It's the third time she's asked this particular attendant and she can tell the question is beginning to grate. He repeats his previous answer and informs her that they will be serving meals soon. Apparently this is meant to console her for the lengthy delay and her demotion to Economy class. Not to mention missing her last chance at lifelong bliss with the love of her life. Sofia smiles politely and drops back in her seat. She can't even think of food right now. It makes her nauseous.

She pulls a book of poetry from her bag and flicks through it. She reads one poem by Rumi before snapping it shut. The words do something to assure her that the Universe supports love, thrives on it, will champion it. But she'll only know this for sure when she's there. On those steps. Looking into his eyes. Touching him. Holding him close. Breathing him in. She tucks the book away with the rest of her treasures. She considers reading his letter again. Or listening to music. She's listened to John Lennon sing about love and Jackson Browne about longing too many times to count over the last few months. Each time it's emotional overload, some form of sadistic self-torture.

The lyrics to the latter have double meaning for her now. When Yves gave her those words in that letter one year ago, he knew exactly what they'd evoke. It wasn't the first time he'd left them behind. He'd left the same words for her the first time they split, only there were more of them and it wasn't in a letter. He must have found her journal, flipped ahead to a blank page he liked the look of before scribbling the lyrics of the entire song out for her to discover weeks – maybe months? – later. She still remembers turning the page and finding his distinctive scrawl, running her fingers over it as her eyes welled with tears. Those words told her everything he felt but could never articulate. Yves often borrowed someone else's words when he couldn't find the right ones himself. Partly because, when it came to them, he felt so much. The feelings were so big, so profound. On both sides. And Yves was a visual person, not the verbose type. Which was probably why both the message he left in her journal and the letter he left by her bed contained doodles of flowers and hearts all round her name. Each little doodle was a letter of love. Just as each of his photos was his version of poetry.

Sofia spies the flight attendant from earlier begin to wheel a cart down the narrow aisle. She gets up, excusing herself from the row of people fencing her in. She can't stand to stay seated. She can't eat. She can barely breathe. She heads for the restroom, locks herself inside. After washing her hands, she presses cool fingers to her forehead, cheeks, lips.

"Please be there," she whispers with her eyes squeezed shut. "Please wait for me, Yves…"

~x~

He's doing nothing. As he always does in Paris. Only this time, his nothing feels more significant. There's hope underpinning it. Expectation. And a big question that only one person can answer.

Yves wanders, camera in hand, but doesn't shoot anything. When it rains, he visits galleries he knows too well. He eats because it's something to do. He smokes, even though it's a habit Sofia rid him of years before. He stays up late, wired by too much strong black coffee. He watches old French films on the television in his hotel room. All the lines seem to be written about him and his absent love. His gut trembles whenever he thinks of her. Of touching her. Of being in her presence again. Of the fact that she might be on her way to him.

The suspense is unbearable. It seems like a just punishment though. An oddly satisfying penance for pursuing a happiness he still doesn't believe he deserves. Sofia would disagree with him. She always told him he was unnecessarily harsh on himself. She always told him that he had to learn to accept love in his life. Not just in the short-term either. He had to believe that someone's love for him was without restriction, without an inevitable expiration date. And by someone, she meant herself. His rejection of her love, his underlying belief in its finiteness had wounded her more deeply than if he hadn't matched her extraordinary love for him.

He had. He'd matched it equally. Passionately and lastingly. He never had any doubt of the boundlessness of his own love. Just hers. Maybe she was right all those years ago. When they'd argue and she'd accuse him of having no faith. Maybe faith was exactly what he owed her now.

A few times each day, Yves walks the steps where they are due to meet. The spot where fate caused their collision one year prior. He imagines what will happen if she comes. He tries not to imagine what will happen if she doesn't. After all this nothingness, days of it, months of it, there's only one thing left to do. After all that's passed between them, after all that's happened since they separated, there's only one thing he can do. So he waits.

He waits.

_TBC…_


	8. Chapter 8

Title: The Click of the Light & the Start of the Dream

Author: mindy35

Rating: T, sexual situations.

Pairing(s): Yves/Sofia, Yves/Other, Sofia/Other

Summary: Follows the events of "For Lovers Only".

Please see first part for disclaimer etc

viii.

She navigates the airport in record time but it's still not fast enough. Nothing moves fast enough for her. She is in Paris. She is so close. But she is so, so late. Night has fallen and all the evening traffic has converged on the city as people hit the clubs, restaurants and cinemas. She throws money at the taxi driver, tells him it's an emergency and to please go as fast as he can. It's just her luck. She gets the one cautious taxi driver in the whole city. He has yet to make friends with the accelerator. The familiar trip from the airport seems more interminable than ever. She wants to leap out of the car and use her own legs, feel the cold air slamming through her lungs as she runs to him.

Sofia sits still. She bites her nails. She mutters under her breath in French. She chants for him to wait.

When the car pulls up at the foot of the stairs, she opens the door before it comes to a full stop. She asks the driver to wait, slamming the door before receiving an answer. She's breathing heavily, air puffing from her lips in sharp little clouds. At first, the stone stairwell looks deserted. It's lit in parts by three dim streetlamps. But it's only when she steps to one side that she sees him. Sitting. On the first landing down. Under the highest light. His back is against the lamppost, his head bent like he's asleep, his arms and jacket wrapped tight about his body. His name falls from her lips. And she begins scrambling up the stairs, her footfalls echoing harshly against the stone.

Yves' head lifts.

She trips halfway up, grazing the heel of her hand. Then practically falls at his feet as she reaches him. "What were you thinking, sitting out here?" she pants, running her hands over his chilled clothes. "It's fucking freezing."

"What were you thinking, leaving me sitting out here?" he mumbles, head still bent as she crouches between his knees. "I'm not a man anymore, I'm a fucking icicle."

"My flight was delayed," she sighs, all the tension leaving her body now that she is here. Now that she's with him. "I got here as soon as I could."

Yves chuckles, shaking his head. "Swear to God, Sofia, you have the worst airport karma of anyone I know."

"I know…" She runs a hand over his hair, down his frozen face. "Think it's a sign?"

He looks up, meeting her eyes for the first time. "No…" His gaze drifts over her face, his voice softens. "No, I think it's you."

Her mouth begins to curve upwards. But her smile is interrupted by the beep of the taxi below. "Come on," she murmurs, helping him to his feet. "Let's get you warm."

"Let's get me a drink," Yves groans as his stiff body uncoils.

"Yeah. More than one, I'm thinkin'…" She tucks her warmer body into his and together they start to descend.

~x~

Sentiment dictates that they head to Mollard Restaurant. It's more crowded than the last time they were there but they still manage to get a quiet, corner table. They begin with a drink. A brandy to warm Yves, a tea to calm Sofia. When feeling begins to infuse his body again, Yves speaks, breaking the reigning silence.

"I knew you'd come," he says, eyes lowered to his drink. "I knew if I waited long enough…you'd show."

Sofia is silent a moment. She licks dry lips. "I considered not coming. More than once."

"Me too." He bobs his head. Then lifts it, tilting it as his eyes trace her face. "But…"

A small smile spreads across her lips as they look at each other. "We were kidding ourselves, weren't we? To think that we could not…?"

"Quite possibly," he muses, eyes on hers. "Yeah..."

She can't maintain eye contact with him, it's too intense. So she drops his gaze, stirs her tea. "I kept thinking…these last few months, I kept thinking what a coward I was. You know? Thinking that…what we had couldn't survive reality."

"When it's already survived so much."

She laughs sadly. "Right."

Yves shifts in his seat, rocking back then forward again. "Want to know what I was thinking? As I was sitting out there, freezing my ass off? And I warn you, this part may be incredibly corny, you can put it down to the effects of frostbite."

Sofia tucks her hands beneath her chin, a small gleam in her eye. "No, I love when you get corny. What do you think I flew all this way for?"

Yves clears his throat a few times, struggling to expel the words from his mouth. Sofia waits, understanding what alien things they are to him.

"I think…" he says finally, simply, "I think I was born to love you. Born to…be with you. Call it fate or destiny or whatever."

She bites her lip, unable to suppress a smile. "And you just figured this out _today_?"

He takes a sip of his drink. "Took a while, huh?"

There's a prolonged pause before she gestures at his left hand. "So…is that why the new tattoo?"

Yves lifts it, looks at the tattoo there. Her name. Engraved on his ring finger. He got it shortly before coming. "Well, I figured after the whole wolf debacle, I had to come back with something, you know?"

"Hm." Sofia takes his hand, smooths her thumb over the delicately inked letters. "You owed me. Big time. For that one…"

Yves looks at the tattoo, looks at her hand holding his. "And also, I figured that…even if I never saw you again…you're it. For me. You're branded on me. On my skin. My heart. Eyes. Soul. There'll never be anyone else. So…" He turns his gaze on her but after a moment looks away. His hand slips out of hers, reaches for his brandy. "You?"

Sofia draws in a breath. "Well, as you can see…" She lifts her left hand, flipping it back and forth in the air to show the lack of ring. She gives a rueful smile then adds, "So I also have a new tattoo."

Yves stalls, glass halfway to his mouth. "You didn't."

She dips her head. "I did."

He laughs, forehead dropping into his palm. "You turned him into a toad?"

"A frog, actually."

"Oh my God…"

"No, he's really cute! He's like a cartoon frog, lounging on a lilypad with a little crown on his head. I call him Prince Willis."

"You _named_ him."

"He named himself."

"You are so bizarre. You know that?"

Sofia cups her tea in two hands, grinning impishly. "Well, _Prince Yves_ just…didn't seem to suit him."

Yves shifts closer, running a hand up the inside of her leg. "Let me look. I wanna see it."

She slips a hand over his, glancing about. "Not now. Not here."

His fingertips play with the hem of her dress. "Come on, just a quick peek."

All at once, the air turns serious. It is filled with tension and weight. Their proximity seems dangerous. Significant and volatile. His body heats. Her breath hitches.

"Later. Okay?" she whispers, her hand squeezing the one on her thigh. "Later…"

A waiter approaches to take their order. Yves retreats in his seat, his hand dropping away. Sofia swallows and picks up her menu. They order their meals and a bottle of Cabernet to share, their adjacent bodies throbbing with a hot, hopeful promise.

~x~

He kisses her in the taxi.

His hand finds hers first, stealing into the space separating them and slowly interlacing his fingers with hers. The lights of the city streak by as rain begins to dot the windows. Her head drops to his shoulder. His head turns. He scoots closer, fingers tightening on hers. Her eyelashes fall heavily, her head lolls backwards. He kisses her hair, brow, nose. Then ducks his head further and finds her lips with his. Her mouth is already open for him, wide and willing. He loves that about her. God, has missed it like breath. How open she is to him. How wholly and unreservedly prepared she is to trust him, love him back, let him into the depths of her soul.

Sofia has not checked into her hotel. There hardly seems a point. They give the driver the address of his. Yves has his usual suite at the Hotel Amour. The clerk on duty couldn't look more shocked to see him with a companion for the first time in nearly a decade of being their regular guest. Her bags at their feet, they kiss in the elevator. They kiss as he backs her down the quiet corridor, one bag slung over his shoulder so both hands can hold her hips. They kiss against the door when they reach it, Yves fumbling in his pocket for the keycard. They continue their kiss as they stumble through the door, dumping the bags, the urgency increasing as they pull each other close, hasty hands burrowing beneath constricting clothes.

His mouth only breaks from hers when his hand slips beneath her dress, cupping between her legs. Sofia gasps and presses into his palm, head thrown back and eyes closed. He kisses her neck three times then sinks to his knees in front of her. One hand caresses his hair and he can feel her eyes on him as he reaches up under her dress and begins to roll down her black hose. He does it slowly, ducking his face beneath her dress to kiss the skin he reveals. Both her hands move to his hair when he reaches her underwear, peeling it away from her as well. Burying his face in her, his nose nudges her clit with affection. His tongue delves between her folds for a taste of her arousal.

"You know what this is like?" he murmurs, giving her lower lips a lingering kiss. "It's like coming home. This is my home." He kisses her stomach, rests his chin on it. "You're my home."

She smiles down at him, thumb grazing his mouth. "Welcome back."

He kisses her thumb, licks the graze on her palm then continues peeling her pantyhose down her legs. Sofia bites her lip and plays with his hair, her breathing heavy but patient. He chuckles when his eyes light on what he went seeking.

"You're right," he says, glancing up at her and nodding. "He looks like a Willis." He extends a hand, curls it round her neck, pulls her down to him. And they kiss, in a messy, tangled heap on the floor.

Later, after they make it to the bed and out of their clothing, he will push inside her. Slow and savoring. He will wait until the initial, overwhelming rush of pleasure subsides, until her breath evens out a little. He'll stay still inside her, let his face drop into the cradle of her neck. He'll kiss her skin, breathe her in.

"Honey," he'll whisper, "I'm home."

Sofia will laugh, kiss his ear and clutch him close.

_END of Part Two._


	9. Chapter 9

Title: The Click of the Light & the Start of the Dream

Author: mindy35

Rating: This part K.

Pairing(s): Yves/Sofia.

Summary: Follows the events of "For Lovers Only".

Please see first chapter for disclaimer etc.

PART THREE – THE DREAM

"_What a beautiful mess this is.  
It's like taking a guess when the only answer is "Yes"._

_Through timeless words and priceless pictures,_  
_We'll fly like birds, not of this earth._  
_And tides, they turn, and hearts disfigure,_  
_But that's no concern when we're wounded together._  
_And we tore our dresses and stained our shirts,_  
_But it's nice today…_

_Oh, the wait was so worth it." _

ix.

Lola is wary of Sofia the first time they meet. They take her to brunch at a cafe just a couple of blocks from their new New York apartment. The place is still a mess of half-finished repairs and half-unpacked boxes. It's cold and it's drafty. The paint is old and drab and peeling. But it's theirs. Their new paradise. They've never lived together before. It's new territory for them, a constancy of bliss they've never known until now. There's a room for Lola, a small one. It needs a fresh coat of paint before she can stay there. But no one wishes to push the little girl into change she is not yet ready for.

It's been two months since he and Sofia returned from Paris, committed to tackling the realities of building a brand new life together. The year before, those realities had seemed so daunting, so insuperable. Now, they are mere facts of the life they'd chosen. A life that had chosen them. Their love for each other made that choice undeniable. No other choice would ever work, could ever work. Both are certain of that now.

After Paris, Yves hadn't wanted to waste any more time. So he told his daughter about the new woman in his life almost immediately. They'd yet to meet though. When she dropped off their daughter, Clare warned him that Lola had been unsure about coming, she had endless questions about what was going to happen. Lola was naturally introverted, a sensitive soul. And children in such situations often regress, Clare told him. The likelihood of Lola doing so was higher. She'd been born with a mild developmental disorder. She was not a regular nine-year old. She was smaller and much less emotionally equipped. It was one of the reasons Yves had stayed with Clare for so long, one the reasons he could not desert her after the accidental pregnancy that changed the trajectory of both their lives. It was also one of the issues that altered his relationship with his ex-wife. In their past life, he often felt she coddled Lola, that she became paranoid about her ability to deal with life's challenges. In this case, however, Clare was right.

Lola has spent most of their first meeting swinging from his neck like a possessive monkey and casting Sofia suspicious sidelong looks. Sofia sits next to Yves, trying not to look as nervous as she feels. She resists the urge to let her hand rest on his knee as it normally would. She has a feeling the little girl wouldn't like it. Every so often, Yves looks across at her, gives her a reassuring smile. Her answering smile is less certain. After the third exchange of silent smiles, Lola swings around to his ear and asks in a noisy whisper why he smiles at Sofia so much.

"I smile at Sofia," Yves answers, tucking some hair behind her ear, "because she makes me happy. Because I love her."

"Why do you love her?" his little girl asks immediately, big eyes blinking.

Yves takes a sip of coffee, looks across at his love. "Lots of reasons."

"What about mommy?" Lola asks next, hands tight about his neck. "Why do you love mommy?"

"Why do you think?" he responds, head tipped to one side. They've had this conversation before. Many times. But it's one his daughter feels the need to repeat, to be certain of.

"'Cause she gave you me," Lola answers brightly.

"Exactly," he nods, smoothing a hand down her back. "And my heart got bigger when you were born." He glances at Sofia again, can't help another small smile. "Just as my heart got bigger when I met Sofia. That's why I have room for both of you in there."

Lola nods, plonking down in his lap just like she used to do when she was three. Her arms let go off his neck and her face lowers as she starts playing with his sunglasses. He knows this logic, this whole situation, troubles her young mind. He knows that acceptance will be a process for her. But he trusts that in time, some sense of her place in his world will return. That she will feel secure and loved. That she will understand how this new life is better for all of them. Most of all, he hopes that his child will fall in love with the woman he has changed his life to be with, that she will see the love Sofia already has for her.

Shuffling backwards of his lap, Lola's feet hit the floor as she announces that she needs to go to the bathroom. But when Yves tells her that Sofia will take her, she frowns stubbornly.

She reaches for his hand. "No. Daddy."

He pats her hand. "It's okay, sweetheart. Dada is going to pay the bill and wait right here for you. Go with Sofia. She'll look after you."

Sofia rises. She slings her bag over her shoulder then holds out her hand. "Come on, Lola. It's okay."

Lola stands still for a moment, looking back and forth between them. Then, somewhat reluctantly, she loosely grasps Sofia's hand and follows her through the crush of the crowded cafe to the ladies room. It's Saturday morning in Manhattan so there is a long line for the bathroom. As they wait, Lola becomes interested in the charm bracelet on her wrist. Sofia collected the charms from all over the globe, mostly during her modelling days. Yves gave her one or two. Most recently, he bought her a silver Eiffel Tower. Lola twists the thing round and round on her wrist then starts naming the individual charms. Horse. Dog. Candle. Frog.

"What's this one?" she asks, looking up at her.

Sofia looks down at the charm in her pale little fingers. "It's a padlock. It locks something up tight. Something precious. It keeps it safe. Forever. Or…until whoever has the key lets it out again."

Lola considers this. Then asks, brows crumpled, "But…who has the key?"

Sofia bites her lip. "Well…everyone does, I guess. You do. I do—"

"Daddy does?"

"Of course. Your daddy has the key too."

Lola hums, repeats the word a few times then keeps naming the charms. Over and over again until they reach a free toilet stall. "You can wait over there," she instructs, pointing to the row of basins in the adjoining room before shutting and locking the door.

Sofia turns and waits as told. An elderly lady in the queue smiles at her.

"She's beautiful," she says.

"Yes," Sofia smiles. "She is."

Lola emerges a few minutes later and looks almost surprised to find her still standing and waiting for her. The basins are high and Yves' daughter small, so Sofia lifts her at the waist while she pumps some soap into her hands and runs them under the water. Lola hums a little tune as she does. When Sofia sets her down, Lola explains that her mom always says to wash her hands for as long as it takes to sing _Happy Birthday_. Sofia's fingers are still sticky from her grapefruit and from sharing Yves' toast. So she washes them as both of them hum _Happy Birthday_. After they dry their hands, Sofia pulls a stick of lip-gloss from her bag, leans close to the mirror and swipes the wand over her lips.

Lola watches.

She is about to tuck the tube away. But instead asks, "Want some?"

Lola nods. The mirrors are high too so Sofia lifts her again, sets the little girl on one hip and points to the mirror. Lola watches as she drags the wand over the mouth she inherited from her father, painting it with two practised strokes.

"Now do this—" Sofia presses her lips together.

Lola copies then gives a gap-toothed grin. Sofia smiles back and lets her slide down to the floor. Back in the café, she clambers up on the bench beside her dad, telling him that Sofia let her wear makeup. Yves inspects the pale pink shimmer on her lips with approval. Then he glances over her head at Sofia.

"One small step, huh?"

Sofia smiles back and takes her place beside him. As Lola continues to chatter, Sofia drapes an arm over her father's shoulder. Her fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck. Yves' free hand rests on the lowest curve of Sofia's back. If Lola notices either gesture, she doesn't seem to mind.

After brunch, they walk back to their apartment. Lola seems happy to trot on ahead of them, not feeling the need to commandeer her father's hand or attention. Once home, all three settle at the table by the peeling french windows. They open onto a small patio where Sofia is trying to encourage some pot plants to grow. She shows Lola some pictures of her father before she was born. His daughter thinks the one where he has shaggy hair and a beard is hilarious. Sofia has to agree with her. Yves retreats to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee. He watches as Sofia digs through the piles of miscellanea on the cluttered table. She pulls out the paint samples she's been collecting and together they start selecting a color for Lola's new room.

Yves watches. He watches them sit at the same table, two parts of his formerly severed lives. His dream life and his reality. His past and his present. His two great loves. Now somehow existing in the same time and place. Melding to become some formerly inconceivable dream-reality. It's a revelation for him, a gloriously poignant twist of fate. He watches his daughter's fingers sift through the multi-colored tiles. He watches Sofia kick off her ballet flats and tuck her feet beneath her on the wooden chair. He watches the sunlight glint off their hair. He watches Lola's shy eyes on Sofia's face and Sofia's smile become more relaxed. He watches them giggle over a "snot green" tile, and can't help smiling to himself. Because for the first time in he doesn't know how long he actually believes that everything is going to be fine. Better than fine.

His life is going to be beautiful. His life will be happy. His life will be full of color.

_TBC…_


	10. Chapter 10

Title: The Click of the Light & the Start of the Dream

Author: mindy35

Rating: T, sexual situations.

Pairing: Yves/Sofia.

Summary: Follows the events of "For Lovers Only".

Disclaimer: Characters are the property of the Polish Brothers. Please see first chapter for the rest.

A/N: This is the final chapter of this story so just wanted to offer my thanks to those who've commented, especially those who have followed this story from the beginning. Hope all enjoy this conclusion...

x.

The wedding date creeps up on them.

After all they've overcome, the decision to marry is an easy one, an obvious one. So they do all the relevant paperwork and make a date with City Hall. Sofia's sister promises to fly in for the occasion. And they invite some friends to their finally finished apartment for lunch following the nuptials. They no longer want to live their lives in isolation. They no longer want to hide their love away like it is too fragile to be seen. It isn't. It is more robust than either of them would have predicted. More robust and more resolute. It hasn't waged a bloody war or conquered whatever obstacles lay in its way. It hasn't had to, and that isn't its nature. Their love has simply found a peaceful way to survive, to exist. To honestly claim its rightful and prized place in their lives.

The night before the ceremony, Lola stays at their place. In the room Sofia has decorated with framed pictures of her father and of father and daughter together. After she is asleep, they whisper back and forth in bed for a while. Then they make love as quietly as they can, as slowly as they can. Before falling asleep with their fingers entwined.

In the morning, Sofia makes toast for all three of them while Yves prepares the coffee and froths some milk for Lola. Sofia braids Lola's hair as she sits at the breakfast table, munching away. She wears the dress bought for her in that faraway French boutique. Sofia spent hours picking apart the delicate needlework and re-stitching it to fit her growing body. A photo of her in the dress, running down a dusky slope hangs in her room, above her violin stand. Despite its haunting quality, it's one of Sofia's new favorites of Yves' work. Her hands shake slightly as she braids Lola's hair, as she applies her eyeliner, as she straightens Yves' tie. The shaking stops though when he kisses her, when he whispers reassuring words against her cheek. Slipping into a simple ivory suit, Sofia spritzes some perfume on her décolletage and takes one last sip of coffee. At the mirror by the door, she and Lola both apply some gloss to their lips before Yves ushers them out, camera slung round his neck.

City Hall is already running behind by the time they arrive. So they wait. Sofia's head rests on Yves' shoulder. His fingers fidget with hers. Meanwhile, Lola takes pictures of the overflowing dustbin...the sun-soaked tiles...the sculpted ceiling...Sofia's shoes...Yves' watch...their interlocked fingers. Eventually their names are called. The service is short and to the point. A mere formality. Which is all they require. The words of love and commitment they owe each other they prefer to keep private. They know them. They know exactly what they feel and why they're choosing to exchange vows. It seems almost redundant to state the truth of it aloud. Or like they'd be tempting fate's magnanimity just a little too much.

There's an awkward moment when the Justice of the Peace asks if they have rings.

Yves and Sofia look at each other. "No," they say in unison.

They look at the old man. Yves shrugs. Sofia smiles.

"No rings."

"No."

"No."

"No rings."

The old man glances between them then stutters on with his speech. A moment later, they are husband and wife. They kiss. Three times. Eyes opened. Lola looks at her shoe, smiling. Before heading back to their apartment to celebrate, they go to a tattoo parlor. Yves and Lola watch as Sofia has her husband's name permanently inked onto her left ring finger.

"Does it hurt?" Lola asks, nose scrunched.

Sofia shakes her head and smiles. "Nope." Then she tips back her head for Yves to lean down and kiss her while his name takes shape on her skin.

The gathering at their apartment is informal. There is finger food and music and plenty of champagne. There are some old friends in attendance, some who knew them during their first tempestuous affair. And there are some newer ones who have little idea how long and how much it has taken for them to finally find their happiness. It's one of the newer friends who asks the newlyweds about their honeymoon plans. Yves and Sofia smile at each other. It's a question they've heard often since revealing their intention to wed. And there's only one answer. There's only one place they wish to go, only one place that holds meaning for them. They need to revisit some of the glorious moments they had there as well as amend some of the more painful ones.

The following day, they are on a twilight flight to France. When the airport controller asks Sofia the reason for her visit – business or pleasure – she can't help a small smile of remembrance. She casts a look at her lover then answers in lilting French:

"Pleasure, of course. Why else visit Paris?"

~x~

The door clicks closed. His keys and camera are laid on the table by the door. His footsteps approach. Sofia continues washing up. Waiting for him. They had a fight that morning. Not even a fight. A squabble. About nothing. Small stuff. Stupid stuff. It's rare for them now but not unprecedented.

His footsteps falter. He's standing on the threshold. Looking at her. She can feel his gaze on her back. Sofia cleans his coffee cup silently and places it on the rack to dry. Then he is moving towards her. She hears him. Feels him. Smells him. She smiles as a large bunch of bright yellow flowers appear in front of her. And leans back into his body as Yves burrows his face into her hair, muttering a soft "sorry". She takes the flowers in her sudsy hands and bends her face towards his. His hands immediately move to her body. One to her hip, the other sweeps away her hair so he can kiss the back of her neck. Then all of a sudden he grabs her, lifts her off her feet. Ignoring her surprised squeals and flailing limbs, he hauls her through the apartment towards their bed. She's grinning by the time he throws her onto the mattress. And he is forgiven when he lowers his body to hers and seizes her mouth with his.

"Wanna fuck it out?" he murmurs between breathless kisses.

"Yeah…" She is already unbuttoning his shirt, spreading her legs.

She pushes him onto his back and sits astride his body, ripping off her woollen sweater. Yves lies back and watches her undress, hands smoothing up and down her thighs. He used to have to hold her down when they made love. He used to feel the need to pin her body with his, capture and clamp her wrists. It was as if he feared that without that restraint she would dematerialize and he would be left with nothing but a memory. He no longer does that. He no longer fears that. His passion for her is unchanged. Their passion for each other is as intense and absorbing as it has ever been. But it has been liberated. Their hearts have been liberated to love in a way that hearts can only love when they know that the object of their affection won't be spirited away. Now, Yves' hands roam freely, they explore confidently. They trust her presence now. They know she is his and always will be.

After stripping them both bare, Sofia re-straddles him, leans down for a quick kiss. "So you know I quit the birth control, right?"

Yves nods, running a palm from her neck down her torso to her belly. "I know."

"So…?" She smiles down at him expectantly.

He sits up, capturing her lips in a deep kiss. After they pull apart, he cups her face with one hand, smiles at her. "So bring on our next miracle."

_FIN._


End file.
